


To Wish Upon A Star

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mentions of hospitals, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1791106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock was three when Mycroft taught him how to wish upon a star.</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>He was four when he learned that not all wishes come true.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To Wish Upon A Star

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like writing something angsty and I haven't written Sherstrade for a while. So here you go.

_Sherlock was three when Mycroft taught him how to wish upon a star._

_He was four when he learned that not all wishes come true._

Sherlock stared out the window, his violin on his shoulder. He scanned the sky, looking for any sign of stars. The lamps made it difficult, but he did it nonetheless. He heard John’s voice in the background, rambling about something that Sherlock didn’t care about. John had probably found the toes that Sherlock was storing in the sink. Not interesting.

There. Sherlock stopped playing, setting the violin aside and standing as close to the window as he could. He closed his eyes, his lips forming the familiar words as quickly as he could, although he did not say them out loud. _Star light, Star bright, the first Star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight. Please let him make it through the night and let him see tomorrow._ He opened his eyes, scanning the sky, and as childish as it was, as silly and juvenile as it made him feel, he was relieved to see no other stars, not at first. His wish was in the clear.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice cut through his thoughts. Sherlock half-turned to see him, visibly distracted. “You’re worried about Greg?”

“Yes.” Sherlock turned away, looking outside again. At all the stars up in the sky, twinkling away. _Please, let him live._ He swallowed thickly. No one knew that he was involved with Lestrade, that they had been together for nearly a year. Sherlock had not wanted their relationship to interfere with his Work. Secretly he did not want to see Lestrade harassed by his coworkers simply because he was involved with Sherlock outside of work.

Last night Lestrade had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he had gotten two bullets in the abdomen in thanks. Blood loss combined with his age (he wasn’t _that_ old, Sherlock thought defensively) had worried the paramedics. Lestrade had been rushed into surgery and had remained there for several hours. He had been released to the ICU, but he was still sedated and in critical condition.

“He’ll be fine,” John told him. Sherlock could feel John’s eyes on him, could feel the confusion. No one knew. Because of that, Sherlock couldn’t even sit by Lestrade’s - no, Greg’s - side. Not that it mattered much. Wringing one’s hands didn’t do much. It was pointless, a waste of time. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. The odds were not in Greg’s favour, no. But Sherlock had wished for him to be safe, had wished on the first star, and sometimes wishes came true.

His phone vibrated on the table it rested upon and he quickly turned away from both the window and John, picking it up and scrolling to the new message. It was from Mycroft. _‘He’s awake. He wants to see you.’_ Sherlock’s heart jumped in his chest. Greg was awake? He pulled on his coat, sliding his mobile into his pocket, and was heading down the stairs as quickly as he could, ignoring John’s protests and his questions. Those could wait. Greg couldn’t.

The ride to the hospital was far too long, in Sherlock’s opinion. Too much time for thinking. He drummed his fingers on his knees, staring out the window. Up at the star that he had wished on. _Please._ He stepped out of the taxi, tossing some banknotes his way before walking into the hospital. Mycroft had texted him a room number.

it was only a few floors, and the lift was quick. When he emerged from the lift, Mycroft was standing there, leaning on his umbrella. He looked haggard, bruises under his eyes and his thin lips held in a tight grimace. “Hello, brother mine,” Mycroft said, his voice lacking its usual sarcasm. “You have been given permission for unlimited visiting privileges, and designated next of kin, replacing his ex-wife.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Mycroft sighed. “You cannot hide everything, Sherlock.” Something in his face softened. “Nor do you need to. Your Detective Inspector will not suffer any negative consequences as a result of what has happened, I can assure you of that.”

No, Sherlock wanted to tell him. He wanted Mycroft to keep his hands far, far away from Greg. But that didn’t matter here. He wanted Greg to be okay, wanted him to be safe, and if Mycroft’s meddling meant that Greg had access to the best medical care available, Sherlock was not going to argue. But he wasn’t going to say thank you, either. He simply nodded and headed into the room.

There was a nurse in the room, checking the IV pumps, and she looked up as Sherlock entered. “He’ll only be awake for a few minutes,” she warned him. “He still needs his sleep.”

“But he’s stable?” Sherlock’s voice was a whisper. He didn’t know why he felt it was so important to be quiet. It just was.

The nurse glanced around. “He’ll make it through the night,” she confirmed. “But we won’t know whether or not the blood loss or time on the table damaged his brain until he wakes up for good.” She grimaced. “Time will tell.” Sherlock nodded acknowledgement and took a chair by Greg’s bedside. Brain damage? No one had mentioned that, not even Mycroft. Sherlock made a note to get Greg’s medical records and see what had happened for himself. He brushed off his thoughts - he could worry about that later - and turned to his partner, worried. Greg’s eyes were closed, his sweat-damp hair plastered to his forehead. He looked pale, looked sick, and Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably. This wasn’t his Greg, this wasn’t what Greg looked like.

He smoothed Greg’s hair out of his face, stroked his cheek. Took one of Greg’s hand in his, twining the fingers. It was silly, it was sentimental, but Sherlock did not care. He kissed Greg’s fingers, studied his face. Looked for any flutter of the eyelashes that would signal him waking up. Any sign of consciousness, a sign that Greg was coming back to him. “I love you,” Sherlock said, his voice soft. It was something he had never spoke out loud, something Greg had never heard, and Sherlock did not know what compelled him to say it, but he did.

Greg’s hand twitched in his, and he shifted, his eyes fluttering open. HIs gaze fixed on Sherlock, his face breaking out into as much of a smile as he could show with the tube in his mouth. “Hi,” Sherlock murmured, somewhat self-conscious. Had Greg heard him?

There was a feeble squeeze of his hand, and Sherlock glanced from their hand to Greg. “I’m here,” Sherlock said, feeling ashamed for the first time in a long time. He should have been there a long time ago, should have been by Greg’s side. “Mycroft set it up. You’re getting the best care you could receive.”

Shakily Greg raised their joined hands to touch Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb caressing Sherlock’s face. Sherlock swallowed thickly, emotions threatening to overwhelm him. “I love you,” he told Greg again, his voice more confident. “I love you.”

Greg could not smile, not properly with the endotracheal tube, but Sherlock could read his joy in his face. He was safe, he was himself. His Greg was not gone. Sherlock watched as Greg’s eyes fluttered closed and his face relaxed back into the sleeping mask it had been. He had used up his energy for now, and he needed more rest. Sherlock’s thumb stroked over Greg’s knuckles and he settled in to wait. He would be there when Greg woke up, and for the rest of his life.

It was two weeks later when Greg was allowed to leave the hospital, Sherlock by his side. Neither man cared what others would think. Sherlock knew that Greg needed his support, and that was what mattered. John helped Sherlock move temporarily into Greg’s flat so that Sherlock could provide the care that Greg needed, and for Sherlock’s sake, as well. He did not sleep well when Greg was out of his sight.

It was their first night home, their first night together as a pair, out to anyone that mattered. Greg was asleep on their bed, worn out from the transition. Sherlock stood, going to the window, scanning the sky for a star. His eyes were sharp, and it wasn’t long before he spotted the faint twinkle of the first star of the night. He said the familiar words, his voice barely a whisper.

_Star light, Star bright, the first Star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight._

_Thank you._


End file.
